


Everything You Stand For, Everything You Are

by Dorkangel



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alex and Scott 5eva, Alternate Universe - Eagle of the Ninth, Alternate Universe - Roman, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angry Erik, BAMF Logan, BAMF Sean Cassidy, Calm Down Erik, Charles Being Concerned, Charles is the mommy, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Erik will be the daddy, F/M, Future Cherik, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, M/M, Stryker is a bastard, once he gets his shit together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-21 23:12:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2485709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorkangel/pseuds/Dorkangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik is a slave and a gladiator in the strange new land of Britain, dragged from his ruined home and murdered family by the Roman legionaries.<br/>Charles is a free man and something of a philanthropist, who saves those slaves that he sees and who need it.<br/>Maybe they were never meant to meet, because no matter what Charles says, Erik hates everything he stands for, and everything he is.<br/>On the other hand, he has to get his son back from these Roman savages, by any means necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set in an ambiguous time in Roman Britain! Little bit of Eagle of the Ninth, little bit of real history, little bit of Cherik.  
> I am working on this, but I have a lot of work and homework and stuff and I just needed to post this because it's been sitting around for AGES.
> 
> EDIT: 05.23.2016: This work has been abandoned. Sorry. If anyone is interesting in continuing it, please contact me: if not, it will eventually be deleted.

Everything You Stand For,  
Everything You Are.

Charles sighed at the entrance to the arena, and grudgingly put his crutches in one hand and his other arm around Logan's shoulder. "I really don't know why I'm here," he grumbled good-naturedly, ignoring the way that his bulky bodyslave chuckled.  
"Bread and circuses, boss."  
"I don't need bread and circuses, Logan, I have books."  
"You need to go out and see people. Things. Violence."  
"I don't understand why I need to see viol-"  
"Because you're too bloody sheltered, Chuck, that's why."  
Charles breathed in deeply and braced himself and Logan, easily taking the cue after six years of service, lifted him and helped to carry him up to the stadium seats. It was strange, thought Charles silently, how keen Logan could be to return to the arena, despite his own experiences there. Raven had pulled a face at the very idea, even though she'd never had any particular problem with violence, and Sean had visibly paled.

Charles had found Logan after the end of a games, hands tied behind his back, huddled in a cell and being beaten bloody by a bunch of guards. The young man had been eighteen, and his sister, Raven, sixteen, and his stepparents had taken them to see the games in the hope that Charles would stop being so damn peaceful and Raven would stop being so damn rebellious.  
Naturally, it hadn't worked.  
Logan was British, born in the very, very north of Caledonia, and captured by the legionaries along with his brother Victor - when drunk, he would claim that they were the singular reason that Hadrian's wall was built - and brought, with much difficulty, down as a captured slave and later gladiator.  
He had never quite explained to Charles how he ended up being beaten so badly, but he had more than returned the favour by now.

*

Erik glared out at what he could see of the crowd with contempt, disgusted by their thirst for blood. Their cheers and shouting only raised memories of the day that the soldiers had come to his village, and dragged him away from his burning home and his screaming family and-  
He screwed his eyes shut and turned to stare at out of the bars at the other end of the cell, away from the crowds, but escaping the past is never easy and, as a little girl in a red tunic ran past, images came hard and fast from the darkest depths of his mind and flashed before his eyes.

*He told Magda to run the moment that he realised they wouldn't be able to hold their crude fort, and she did, gathering little Wanda up in her arms and not looking back, searching for Pietro as she went. Erik searched for his son too, but the Roman savages had already mounted the turf walls and he had no choice but to draw his sword and swing at them. He heard someone yelling ferociously, and realised with a start that it was him, and that the head of the soldier below him caved in with the force of his blow. He paid no more attention to the dead man, raising his longsword above his head with both hands and hurtling forwards, into the midst of the battle, cutting down those before him in a berserker rage.  
But the legionaries operated with deadly precision and the weight of long years of military training, and the men of Erik's village - so small and rural it didn't even have a name - weren't even warriors, they were traders, hunters, farmers (he himself was a blacksmith), and he had fled into the furthest huts with the others, trying to pick off the Romans as they pushed forwards.  
He didn't know what had happened to Magda and Wanda, but the soldiers showed no mercy and there were as many women and children lying dead on the ground as there were men.  
They cornered him in what used to be a grain store, nothing more than a roof held up with four poles, and he had been well prepared to die, hefted his sword to take as many of them with him as he could...  
...and a high, thin voice broke through the heavy air, screaming 'Papa!', and there was Pietro, struggling in a soldier's arms, hands reaching desperately for his father, face twisted in such utter terror that Erik's world turned numb, and his sword fell limply from his arms and crashed to the ground, but before he could reach the terrified boy the bottom half of a heavy Roman shield descended on his head and his vision tuned black.

When he woke up, he was a prisoner and a slave.  
They had razed the houses to the ground and salted the ground so that nothing would ever grow there again. Any survivors would starve.*

But Gaul was of no importance now. It was gone and conquered, and the little pockets of resistance, like the one Erik had lived in nearly his entire life, were growing less and less common. Rome and its order and its tyranny were everywhere, even here, in Britain. Land of the Painted People, he thought with dark amusement. Of course, he had not seen much of it, and he had certainly not seen the wilder parts or any of 'the world's end' beyond the famous wall, but in the months he had spent here, Erik had not seen a single tribesman. He had seen Britons, of course, slaves and freemen, but not in the wild way that even he himself had been before, with warrior tattoos and long, flung-back hair and proud eyes.  
Anxiously, he ran his fingers through his hair. They had cropped it short, spiky, and the lack of sun on this damn island had darkened the colour so that it was no longer straw-yellow and looked more ashy brown.  
With his new thin frame where there had only before been corded muscle - not that there was any particular lack of that - short hair, haunted, cold eyes and grave features, he looked a shadow of his former self. His family, if they were alive, probably wouldn't even recognise him.  
He tried not to think about Pietro. His son could be anywhere in the empire, and there was no way that anyone would allow some tiny Gaulish slave to watch gladiators fight to the death. Would they, though? These savages' appetite for murder was, it seemed, almost insatiable.  
The circus owner, Tullius, opened the door to Erik's cell, and he squared his shoulders and bared his teeth in an animalistic approximation of a smile. I will not give them the entertainment that they are so eager for, he promised himself, with something like gallows humour making it darkly funny.  
I refuse.

*

"Jupiter," swore Charles softly, his lip curled in distaste. "That was disgusting."  
"No need to kill a wolf quite so slowly." agreed Logan, scowling at the bloodied sand that was the only evidence of a previous slaughter. "Hold up, the circus master's coming out again."  
"I thought that was the last one." said Charles curiously, frowning.  
"And now," called the man, grinning at the crowd. "A fight to the death!"  
"Oh, gods." groaned Charles, while Logan cursed colourfully in Pictish.  
The two men that walked, blinking and hard-faced, out onto their gruesome stage were, however, not really the kind of people you could pity. One had a face that was unmistakably the product of the far off Americas, and a disdainful, almost bored expression, but a Spanish name. He wore a helmet with two heads, and called himself Janos after the god that it was meant to represent.  
The other was... different. I defy you, screamed his eyes. You do not control me. I am going to do whatever I want, and it will be reckless and dangerous and unpredictable and certainly not the mindless violence you came so readily to witness.  
Erik of Gaul, cried the owner, and Charles felt a pang of sympathy. The campaign in Gaul had been ruthless.

The fight was a good one, if such a thing could be called good. Charles watched with a kind of captivated horror as the two gladiators circled and met, almost perfectly balanced and graceful. Janos was quick and slyly clever, moving as though he somehow had power over the wind, but Erik was strong and by no means stupid, tracking the lighter man's movement with flashing, stormy eyes.  
Eventually, it was Janos's skill that gave out. Erik lunged and he couldn't move in time and, with the smallest cry, he was lying pinned on the floor with one of Erik's heavy arms pressed over his chest and arms, the man kneeling on his legs, and the other arm holding a long, deadly blade to his throat.  
The two men glared into each other's faces, both of them furious at their circumstance, and neither of them looked towards the crowd.  
Charles and Logan seemed somehow to be included in their little world, frozen and entranced by the scene. They didn't move to put their thumbs up or down: that would be wrong. This was between the two gladiators, and it was no stranger's business.  
Erik snorted derisively and, ignoring the people's signal for death, got off Janos in quick, brisk movements, all of them loaded with cruel and private humour. With one last glance at the baying crowd, he threw his weapon down in the sand and strode away.  
But, not looking back down at his fallen opponent, he didn't notice the way that Janos, infuriated or enraged, scrambled to his feet and grabbed his spear where it lay beside him on the ground, and hurled it after Erik. It didn't break the man's leather armour, but it was thrown with such force that it would leave a hell of a bruise, and Erik was thrown to the floor on his stomach. In a second, Janos was on him, the tip of the spear pressed into his throat, and looking around for the crowd's opinion.  
The cheered in bloody delight, and their thumbs turned resolutely, inequitably, unavoidably, and with hideous finality DOWN.  
Charles was so absorbed in the horror below him that for a second he forgot about his injured legs and surged to his feet, only for them to buckle and threaten to give out. Logan caught him just in time and both their thumbs raised into the air. "Life!" he called, as loudly as he could. He knew that Logan didn't trust his carefully cultivated accent to give out in situations like this, and that the big guy was oddly self-conscious about his native Caledonian tones, and so it was up to him to shout it forcefully enough that people would take notice.  
"Life, let him live!"  
Some people were beginning to hear him but, luckily, none of them turned and stared. A few thumbs began to turn.  
"Life!"  
"Life!"  
Other voices joined in and, with an incredulously surprised face, Janos climbed off Erik and bowed respectfully to them. Up in the stadium, Charles sighed in relief and looked away, feeling that - for some reason - this widely-watched and public moment should not really be observed.  
Logan didn't question him, but watched him with one eyebrow raised as grunted as he tracked Charles's inevitable chain of thought.  
"They won't let him get away with such direct rebellion." assessed Charles gravely. Logan nodded.  
"You going to help him out then, boss?"  
"Yes, I suppose I am. Do we have sufficient funds with us?"  
"Do we have sufficient room?" mimicked Logan, trying to remember the amount of kids Charles was currently sheltering at his villa.  
"Armando went home," mused Charles, very clearly plotting and ignoring the buzz of noise and gossip around them as the other people got up and left. "Erik could have his room."  
"In that case, yeah, we've got the money. Just."  
"Wonderful."  
Charles sounded gleeful, and Logan glared fondly at him. "It'd be best if we bought him today and picked him up tomorrow, Charles."  
Long years of servitude and swallowing his fierce pride made Logan phrase it as a suggestion more than an order, and the young man looked quickly at him in confusion, elegant brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"  
He leaned back in his seat and sent Charles a 'Well, that's obvious' expression. "Right now, bub, all he's thinking is fight or flight. And we don't want none of either. Buy him now so they don't have a chance to rough him up too bad, pick him up tomorrow so he don't react too bad."  
Charles put his hands out in a gesture so horribly vunerable he didn't want to think about it, like a small child, and Logan lifted him. They made their way down together, both tactfully ignoring the winces Charles couldn't help.

He had lost his legs in the same chariot crash that had taken his mother from him, years after his father died in service of the Roman army, here in Britain. Sharon had become a little overfond of not only the honeyed wine that reminded her of Rome, perhaps, and also of the barely spirit that the local barbarians seemed to drink instead of water, but she was still Charles's mother, and when she gave up he had been left with the Markos: a family of seedy, shady, cruel politicians with no notion of the kind honour that Charles's father had held in such high regard. They left him alone, for the most part, in his father's old villa on the very edge of town, with only a few ageing and unfriendly slaves to take care of him.  
He was eleven.  
He was there, lonely and forgotten and hobbling weakly around on crippled legs with sticks, for a year before anything happened to him. The sound of dogs and wolves - they were used as one by the townspeople; dogs by the Roman settlers and trained wolves by the Britons who had lived here for generations - howling and panting and barking woke him in the middle of the night, and soon enough he heard men too, running around outside and chasing something, or maybe searching for something.  
Curious, he pulled himself out of bed and donned a loose white tunic, then grabbed his sticks and limped over to the kitchen, where he knew there was a great big window, not with any glass, but with a great view of outside. They were all sprinting backwards and forwards and waving to each other, and for a moment he didn't even wonder what they were looking for, just grinning with the adrenaline they were radiating, and imagining what it would be like to be caught up in it, searching with them.  
And then a small noise broke his thoughts, nothing more than the light pad of bare feet on smooth stone, and a light, frightened breathing. He twisted around to look behind him, and both him and the tiny figure framed in the doorway gave a slight gasp. She was maybe a year younger than him, but she looked smaller, and the halo of soft, curly blonde hair that hung long to halfway down her back only dwarfed her further. Her rough tunic looked like it was made of sackcloth, and didn't quite reach her knees, and she was wearing no leggings. Around her neck was a golden torc, twisted and wild, and around her wrists were the remnants of heavy, cruel, iron shackles. A link must have broken somewhere in the middle of the chain.  
They stood, trapped in each other's piercing gaze, while around them the barking and shouting came closer. Someone called something to someone else, sharply and very near, and she started, glancing out into the night and then back at Charles, unsure of where to run.  
"You're the one they're looking for," he whispered, something lighting up behind his forget-me-not eyes in delight or apprehension. "Oh gods, you must have run away."  
Those hunting her were only just in the street outside now, and she quickly made up her mind that she would be safer with Charles than out there, and darted behind him to hide under the table. There was a minute of noise and chaos behind the deafening silence that was all she and Charles heard, and the hunters moved on, and she hugged her knees and sagged in relief.  
Charles lowered himself down carefully so he was kneeling on the floor and their head-heights were level, and stared at her through the table legs. She looked back at him, head cocked to one side like a bird, with unashamed, innocent curiosity, and he noticed that her eyes were filled with tears. Years later, with studies and scrolls on people and medicine - everything from the local Celtic practices to Galen's latest theories back in Rome - he would know that she was retrospective delayed shock, but then he didn't know and just reached out a gentle hand to brush them away. She jumped a little at his touch, but let him.  
"You- y-you're not... scared of me?" she asked, in heavily accented Latin. He shook his head.  
"Why would I be scared of you?"  
"My eyes," she whispered. "They're demon eyes."  
It was true, kind of. The irises were as yellow as a wolf's, flecked with black and amber.  
"I think they're wonderful." replied Charles, and she smiled back, hesitantly.  
"I'm Charles," he said quietly. "Charles Xavier. What's your name?"  
She shook her head. "No, no. Names have power."  
He frowned, but before he could say another word, she spoke again. "I know the word in Latin?" she offered quietly, and Charles nodded, eager for something to call this wild little girl.  
"Raven."

Since that moment, Raven had lived with him - and the others he 'collected' - as his sister. Even the Markos had eventually caved and allowed it, despite her stone-faced insistence that the torc she wore would never, never come off from around her neck.

It had been her, and then Logan, and then a pretty young girl named Angel, and then Alexander, then Armando, then Henry and, most recently, Sean. Charles seemed to have a problem NOT helping those in need.

*

Erik felt a dark feeling of foreboding as they led him roughly back to his cell, half of them astonished and maybe even grudgingly impressed, the others just angry.  
Only two things could happen to him now, as he'd known when he walked into the arena planning to defy them. They would sell him or they would kill him.  
Well, three things if you counted the beating they would most likely dole out first.  
The circusmaster approached the cell with a coiled whip curled ominously around his hand, and Erik gave him the best shit-eating grin he could muster, but a voice and the sound of heavy footsteps interrupted him.  
"Tullius!"  
A man, not quite young and heavily sideburned, came into the edge of Erik's vision, a little out of breath from his run. He opened his mouth to speak and then, remembering his position with a scowl, bowed. "My master wants a word with you."  
Tullius frowned. "Why doesn't he just speak to me himself?"  
Logan inclined his head in what could possibly be interpreted as submission - although it was probably sarcastic - and spoke again through gritted teeth. "He'll be along shortly, sir."  
Erik chuckled slightly at the stress on the last word, snapping Tullius's attention back to him sharply. "I'll deal with you later." he promised in an undertone, and marched towards Logan to demand an explanation and further proof of his master's existence, when Charles appeared at the other end of the corridor, limping and hopping along with his two crutches.  
"Awfully sorry for the delay," he chimed cheerfully. "I have a little trouble getting down the stairs, you see. Ah, Logan, there you are."  
"Xavier," said the circusmaster respectfully, bowing his head. "What are you seeking me out for?"  
Charles turned his soulful blue eyes on Erik, still sitting against the wall in his cell. "Actually, I came to enquire after the sale of this man."  
Erik's blood ran cold.  
"The-" Tullius spluttered and, mustering what composure he could, waved them towards his office. "Of course, Xavier. Come along, come along."  
Logan hesitated a moment before following to grin wolfishly at Erik.  
"See you tomorrow, bub."  
Erik stared back with wide eyes, his heart thundering in his chest, and listened as Logan ran to catch up.  
He was to have a new master. He was to be a possession- again.

*

Raven glared down at the three boys who lay sprawled over her couches, and couldn't help the way her lip twisted upwards into a snarl.  
"Slobs!" she proclaimed, snatching a cushion out of Hank's arms to whack at them with, ignoring Alex's angry Greek swears and the way Sean scrambled anxiously to his feet. Presumably the youngest of them hadn't realised that he'd fallen asleep in the first place, since Sean seemed to be afraid to so much as close his eyes on the Roman furniture. It was strange to him, she knew, as it had been to her at first. She had lived with Charles for twelve years now, though, and was well-used to it- not that she didn't miss home, but she barely remembered it. At the time she had just been grateful for a soft bed.  
But back to the problem of the three slobs they shared a house with.  
"Hank! Hank, pick up after yourself, you filthy animal!"  
Hank, who may have been quiet and a little awkward, but was by no means shy or innocent, sniggered and stood up, brushing crumbs out of the way.  
"You're worse than Logan, honestly," she grumbled, ignoring as Alex clearly got bored of this conversation and hauled Sean off by the shoulder to play board games or something.  
"Hardly that bad!" Hank protested in reply, and she smiled reluctantly.  
"No, not quite that."  
Logan left empty wine jugs EVERYWHERE. All the time. Not to mention casually messing everything up and walking off, and his gladiator's habits (That is to say, putting his weapons down on the dinner table).  
"Where are they, anyway? Logan said he'd take me hunting."  
Hank pulled a face. He and Alex were Greek, and seemed to follow their philosophers's views on hunting, despite both of their muscles and perfectly acute killing skills. Sean had no moral problem with it, but the physical problem of uncoordinated and clumsy long limbs that came with his lanky frame was rather restrictive, and obviously Charles couldn't, so Logan was the only on who would hunt with her.  
"They're at the games, right?" prompted Hank quietly, and Raven groaned.  
"Gods above! The bloody philanthropist in my brother will have found another poor soul to adopt and mend, curse it- no offence, obviously."  
"None taken." murmured Hank. "It's not like he's well equipped to taken in broken gladiators, if Logan's any indicator."  
The sound of the door opening and Charles's soft tap against Logan's heavy, measured steps broke their talking, and she rolled her eyes. Hank smiled and reached for the scroll of parchment lying next to him. "I don't think they've brought anyone home."  
"Maybe not, but you've seen what happens when Charles is let loose in public. He'll walk in here with a swarm of baby goats, I swear."  
She marched away, and Hank buried himself in his parchments. Safer that way.

"Raven!" called Charles cheerfully at the sight of his sister. Logan didn't wave or smile so much as blanch, as Raven was channeling what he had heard the others refer to - in an undertone, mind you - as Full Druid, hair streaming behind her in a wild mane and her golden eyes flashing with determination. Her fists were balled and the torc at her neck gleamed as the light from a window caught it, and Logan actually stopped moving and let Charles greet her.  
"What did you do this time?" she demanded, tactfully ignoring his warm smile and concentrating on the genuinely guilty expression underneath.  
"Um, what?"  
"Don't give me that."  
"Gladiator called Erik." grunted Logan gruffly, marching past them, and Raven put her hands on her hips, eyebrows raised at her brother.  
"You cannot be serious. Another gladiator? Where is he?"  
"Still there, darling, calm down. He- listen, it's a bit of a long story, but it was probably me and Logan or death."  
"We haven't got the room."  
"We have. Just."  
She whacked Charles on the shoulder with all her usual viciousness and flounced off, presumably to yell at some poor, unsuspecting vase. Logan, strategically hiding behind a pillar, snorted in laughter. "You choose a right firecracker to adopt there, Chuck."  
Charles stopped pouting and rubbing his shoulder for a moment to smile at the taller man. "I seem to have a strange pull towards danger. It's probably psychological and based on my-"  
"Uh huh. Very interesting."  
"Oh, shush."  
"I promised Raven I'd take her out hunting."  
Charles sighed, the soft sound slightly disapproving, and waved a casual hand. "Do what you like, I'm supposed to read some treatises on Troy. You'll be back by dinner, right?"  
Logan gave a vaguely affirmative grunt and gathered up the feathered spears that lay, like a reminder of the savage history of this land, by the bookshelf. "All goes well, we'll be back WITH dinner, boss. Raven! Come back here!"  
If Logan were anyone else, Charles may, perhaps, have worried about his ability to spend hours engaged in constant and vigorous activity, but- well, Logan had the extraordinary ability the spend hours engaged in constant and vigorous activity and come off no worse for wear.

*

They spent the night in relative quiet, Sean and Alex drinking themselves silly upstairs - a favourite occupation of theirs - Charles reading his neat little treatises, Logan and Raven gutting and cooking the carcass of whichever poor animal they had chosen to pursue.  
Logan had agreed to pick Erik up around noon the next day with a gruff 'No one else round here does any work anyway, bub', but unfortunately, the best laid plans of big, hairy men are often ruined by angry young Greeks. At least, they were in Charles's house.

Charles woke in the morning, as he often did, to the sound of the irritable and opinionated chirps of British birds. He groaned and rolled over on his side, carefully shifting his legs, and enjoyed the relative quiet that most of the occupants of his house being asleep accorded.  
It didn't last long.  
With a terrific crashing sound, the door seemed to be almost bowled over by a ginger blur. The blur quickly reorganised itself into Sean, who bowed, panting and out of breath.  
"Really Sean," chided Charles, sitting up in bed. "I keep telling you, there's no need to bow."  
"S-Sorry-" he stammered, still put of breath and waving it off. "It's Alex- Alexander, whatever, he climbed out the window."  
"What?"  
"He- He saw Senator Sinister-"  
Charles swore so suddenly and violently that both Sean actually, physically jumped, and then twisted around and grabbed his sticks from where he kept them next to the bed.

*

He had seen Alex at a slave market, furious and frightened, kneeling among the others with an arm wrapped protectively around the tiny boy next to him. The boy - his brother, Scott - wore a blindfold, and before Charles had a chance to intervene in his usual manner, he was dragged away from Alex and sold.

A blind slave would be simultaneously twice and half as valuable at a bid like this. He would be useless for a normal household, especially at only ten years old, but for people who had something to hide - corrupt senators, for example - or who wanted business to be conducted in secret, they were a valuable commodity, seeing as how putting their eyes out yourself could get you in trouble from people like Charles.  
Actually, from what rage-filled fragments Alex had told them (he wasn't angry all the time; only when the subject of his brother came up), Scott wasn't totally blind when he was sold. He was about halfway there, though, and without the treatment that no one who would by a blind slave would administer, he would almost definatley be totally unable to see by now.  
The man who bought Alex's brother was, somewhat appropriately, named Sinster, and he had the kind of reputation that long-proceeded his apt name. Even Charles, happily sheltered in his own self-inflicted state of Utopia and fussy irritation, had heard of Sinister and his bribes to politicians, assassination plots, and simpering kissing of purple-robed backsides. The man was unpleasant, callous, removed and cruel.  
He was the last person IN THE WORLD that Alex wanted with authority - they never said things 'ownership', filthy words that, in reference to human life, left a foul taste in the mouth - over his vulnerable, younger brother.  
The first thing Alex did, when Charles finally managed to outbid the other men attempting to lay their greedy hands on a young man with such prominent muscles and a face so obviously carved from stone, was to punch Hank in the face, call Charles a heartless, cocksucking Roman pig, and burst into tears.  
And it was Logan who wrapped a meaty arm around the kid's shoulders and growled at anyone who cared to listen that people cry when they're frustrated, and anyone wishing to afford Alex 'pity' would get a smack. Of course, Alex and Logan spent most of their days glaring daggers at each other, but the loyalty born from that kind of statement doesn't fade, and Charles knew that if it was ever necessary for them to fight together, they would - what was the phrase Sean and Raven used? - kick ass.  
Still, whenever Alex saw Sinister in public - which, in fairness, was reasonably occasionally - there was a sudden frantic rush for the others to hold him back so he didn't attack the bastard.  
They had never seen Scott.

*

"Logan! Hank! Raven!"  
"Huh?"  
"What is it?"  
Charles hopped into the kitchen with a grave expression and tense shoulders, both features belying a singular and resolute determination.  
"It's Alex, he's gone after Sinister and-"  
"And his brother." growled Logan with a cut of curse. Charles nodded grimly.  
"What are we going to do?" asked Hank hesitantly, eyes flickering nervously from face to face for guidance. The others, Raven included, glanced first at him and then expectantly at Charles.  
"I don't know!" cried the usually-dignified young man in frustration, and collapsed into a chair. "I don't know," he repeated, more calmly. "I think- I don't know, maybe I could go to Sinister with some pretence of neighbourly concern and-"  
"And we bust our way in?" suggested Logan in a snarl, already mentally searching for his knives: Charles could tell.  
"That's not a good idea," warned Hank anxiously, and Charles nodded.  
"Sinister has men wandering around his grounds; army leftovers and deserters and criminals and all sorts of unpleasant types."  
"It requires subtlety," nodded Raven, with only the littlest sideways glance at Logan. If not for the hissed Celtic word that Charles was assured meant 'Wolverine', and was Raven's name for Logan, it wouldn't be apparent that she was referring to him.  
"Raven can move silently." offered Sean quietly, his usual calm and faintly mocking voice surprising Charles, as it often did. Sean himself was quiet, and usually jumpy, but his voice was so relaxed that it tended to make everyone in the immediate vicinity look around carefully for pretty floating lights and pinch themselves, then wonder if someone had slipped something into their drink. They usually ended up at the conclusion that someone had slipped something into Sean's drink.  
"I can." agreed Raven, smiling gratefully at her housemate for the suggestion. She turned to Charles, yellow eyes fiery and worrying. "That's our plan, then? You talk to him about whatever and I go in and get Alex?"  
"Scott too, if he's there." said Charles thoughtfully, tone still perfectly serious. "I'm sorry, love, but this whole mess won't be in vain if it is anything. I'm no happier leaving the kid there than Alex."  
Raven nodded and ran away on light feet, and Logan made to follow Charles out of the door. Sean and Hank exchanged a look of worry, alarm, and wishing they could do something. It was their usual look.  
"No, no, no," Charles was saying rapidly, his clever mind clearly focused on other things. "Logan, you're, um, doing a thing- Jupiter, this is important! What is it, what have I- Erik! Yes, you're picking up Erik. Hank, with me, please. Sean with Logan."  
The younger men suppressed sighs of relief and hurried over to their respective assignments, and Hank helped Charles into a litter, which everyone in the house had learned to hate as Charles did. Still, it was the easiest way around.  
Sean appeared at Logan's elbow, staring out at a confusing world with wide eyes from under his mop of curly red hair. Logan, brows furrowed as he tried to remember what exactly his instructions even were - damn if Charles didn't speak too fast half the time - reached out and friendlily punched the kid on the shoulder. "C'mon. Don't know if Chuck told you already, but we're getting a new gladiator."  
Sean blinked. "Oh. Ok."  
A deep frown formed automatically on Logan's face. "You're accepting that real easy, boy."  
He shrugged blithely. "Guess I got used to it."

*

Erik paced nervously around in his cell, rubbing a migraine away from his forehead, eyes flickering towards the door as he did. Naturally, the owners of the circus hadn't let him out of the cramped space all night, with a few well-placed blows to keep him out of trouble and compliant.  
They had said noon; he had overheard them. But it was noon now, or roundabouts, and the big one had not come to get him. Not the crippled one, his new 'master' (even in his head, he spit the word out like a foul taste), obviously. If that one tried to drag Erik through the streets and to another captivity, Erik would kill him and run off.  
Still, cold and hungry and bruised - from various sources - he didn't fancy his chances fighting the big one. He was a tribesman, Erik could tell, or at least, he had been one. Now he was some dirty Roman's guard dog-  
Dammit, where were they?

*

Even from her position in the bushes behind Sinister's villa, Raven could hear Charles chattering anxiously away in front, occupying the man. Charles was incredibly clever - she would be the last to say otherwise - and he was charismatic to an almost unreasonable degree, but an awful liar. Especially under pressure.  
Right now, for example, he seemed to be questioning Sinister about the availability of hot water in the baths. That wouldn't delay the senator for long, she knew, as even people of saintly patience could only deal with Charles for a certain amount of time, and since she could see none of the mercenaries apparently kept around the place, she would have to move quickly.  
She moved.  
Darting forwards to stand behind a pillar, Raven scanned the area with her curiously coloured eyes and, finding nothing, ran lightly over to a doorway to listen in. She could still hear Charles's rapid talk - he had given up on the bath water thread and moved onto the state of the weather - and the gentle clanking and running water of what was presumably the kitchen, but under that, no sign of Alex and his brother. She shook her head and cursed under her breath, and then a small whimper broke the silence she was concentrating on. Her ears focused in on it, and suddenly there were whispered words audible too.  
Raven grinned like a triumphant vixen and followed the sound on silent bare feet.

*

Alex hurtled into a side room and slammed the door, breathing in heavy pants, and threw himself into the side of the wall to be nothing more than shadow if Sinister's men happened to look in.  
They weren't even smart enough to do that, fortunately, and thundered past like the troop of elephants that he and Hank had seen led into the arena, and not even Logan had to heart to see killed. 'It ain't right,' the wild man had grumbled. 'They're not men, they don't understand'.  
He was broken out of his morbid thoughts by some instinct, or maybe a little movement at the edge of his vision that alerted him to a presence on his left. He took in as much oxygen as he could and looked quickly over to the side, readying himself to fight again...  
... And was greeted by the sight of a small boy with a mop of straight brown hair hanging over a neatly folded black and red piece of cloth that covered his eyes, dressed in a tunic so simple that it served as a sign of his captivity against the opulence of Sinister's home. He was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest against the wall, one hand wrapped around them and the other feeling, in confusion, up the leg of the chair next to him, like a spider. His head was pressed sharply against the wall behind him, staring in the vague direction of Alex.  
It was Scott.  
That must be Sinister's chair, realised Alex, paralysed with astonishment. He must have been sitting in here only a few moments ago, leaving possibly to investigate the source of the noise that Alex had doubtless been causing. When he came in and closed the door so violently, Scott's head must have shot up, which would be why it was pressed so hard against the plaster of the wall.  
Alex simultaneously hurried over to the younger boy and dropped to his knees with a soft thud, hands landing firmly on Scott's shoulders, who jumped and whimpered slightly at the contact, but endured it.  
"Hey," said Alex softly, his voice a deep croak. "Hey, Scott. It's me, it's ok."  
He had been drawing back from Alex, further into the wall, but paused at the words and put a hesitant hand up to ghost over his brother's face.  
"Who are you?" he whispered.  
Alex's thumbs came up from his shoulders to gently touch his face, his sharp cheekbones- man, the kid'd be able to cut stone on them when he was older. He had never noticed them before.  
"It's me, Scotty. It's Alex."  
Scott breathed in so suddenly that Alex was scared he would hurt himself for a moment, then ran his fingers over every part of the teenager's face, memorising his lips and his nose and his eyebrows frantically to try and check, really, properly check, that it was actually Alex, it was TRUE.  
The door opened a little and Scott's head turned instinctively towards the sound. Alex followed the direction, and saw Raven, dressed in her usual short skirt and golden attire, smiling at him from the door. He grinned helplessly back, and she walked forward and crouched next to him.  
"So this is your brother?" she said quietly, and Scott startled. He hadn't heard any steps at all.  
"My name is Raven," she said, gently touching his chest in greeting. "I'm Charles's sister."  
"Who's Charles?" he asked, turning his head very clearly towards Alex, not trusting her yet.  
She hit Alex jokingly on the shoulder. "You haven't told him? Charles is the man who bought your brother, Scott."  
He stiffened up. "Y-You're his owner?"  
Her eyes flashed fury, and something of Full Druid appeared in her face. "No. He can't have an owner. He is a human being, Scott, just like you or me."  
"Charles doesn't agree with slavery." added Alex quickly, well aware that Raven's righteous and semi-foreign ways of speaking would probably be almost incomprehensible to a twelve year old.  
She beamed, suddenly beautiful and no longer fierce. "We're rescuing you, unless you want to stay."  
"No!" Scott's cry caught them both off guard, and they exchanged a concerned look. "Please don't leave me here-" he continued under his breath, like a prayer, and Alex got the Angry Look. The Something Is Going To Get Burnt Down look, and he grabbed Scott's shoulders encouragingly.  
"We're not going to, Scotty. Promise. You can stand, right?"  
The kid nodded, a little shakily with the sudden excitement, and Alex half-pulled him to his feet.  
"Don't let go of me," pleaded Scott, and Alex shook his head, face solemn and teeth gritted in anger. "No," he forced himself to say in a vaguely civil tone. "No, I won't."  
They ran outside, into the corridor and to the border of the garden.  
"Come on," intoned Raven, glancing around what she could see of the grounds for mercenaries. "We have to leave quickly, before Charles and Hank finish with Sinister."  
Alex laughed as the continued walking , realising as he did that he rarely laughed. It was a low chuckle, more of a staggered smile than anything, but it was there.  
"What are they doing to him?"  
"Talking." she replied, with a mock-shudder. "May the gods forbid I afford anyone the torture of having Charles talk at them."  
"Yeah, good point. Ok, Scotty," he said, cheerfully tightening his grip on the boy. "There's a wall here. Think you can climb it?"  
"Alex," his brother replied, with dry enthusiasm. "I'm blind, not paraplegic."  
Alex snorted. "See, what kind of normal kid knows what that means? He's a nerd, my brother."  
"Better introduce him to Charles and Henry, then." replied Raven in a cheery tone, vaulting easily over the low wall.  
"Yeah," said Alex, holding Scott's hand and following her. "And you should totally call them Chuck and Hank. They love that."

*

Logan, staring restlessly out into the garden, at the sundial, decided enough was enough and twisted around to face an antsy and nail-biting Sean. "No sense in waiting any longer, kid. They'll be back soon or they won't be back at all."  
With those simple and gruff words, he swung a heavy winter cloak over to Sean, who gratefully took it, and marched outside, heedless of his light clothing. He was wearing something on top and something on bottom and there was a damn sharp knife in his right boot. He'd be fine.

As they walked, Sean still glancing curiously at the Roman stone and order of the streets, a thought suddenly occurred to Logan and he stared hard sideways at the young man.  
"You haven't been to the games  
yet, have you?"  
Sean shook his head. "There wasn't anything like that at home. If there was a battle, you fought; not in peace."  
"Same." grunted Logan, not offering any more information about his tribe. They were mainly uncontacted, he had learned, and thought it was probably best if they remained that way.  
Sean wasn't so shy about his tribe. They were from south of the wall anyway, and had gotten themselves a bit of a reputation for pride and troublemaking, before Rome decided they couldn't have that and stepped in. Sean wasn't too sure of his age himself, but it couldn't be more than about sixteen, and he must have been maybe fifteen in the battle: far too young to fight. Not that the southern tribes seemed to have any real problems with that, since even their charge had been led by some crazy woman- Logan couldn't remember her name.  
It had been Sean's age that saved him, really. The legionaries might be heartless, monstrous filth (in Logan's not-so-objective opinion), but apparently there had been one that hesitated to kill a boy that was little more than a child. Instead, he had knocked Sean unconscious and let him be jerked violently away from his people, his family, his village, everything he'd ever known, and sent to a market in Londinium.  
Charles had been there with Hank, getting some herbs for his leg from an apothecary, and had seen Sean be ignored by the bidders for the bruises on his face - a sure sign of rebellion - and the gag he had been forced to wear. Later, when Charles took it off him, he had explained in broken and frightened words that the traders had put it on him because he /wouldn't stop screaming/.  
It made Logan sick to his stomach.  
"That's it, right?" asked Sean in his usual relaxed tone, snapping Logan back to reality.  
The arena loomed large in front of them, like a great tribute to the gods of war and chaos that all men had their versions of, Romans and natives alike.  
"Yeah, that's it. You want to come in or are you staying out here?"  
Sean hesitated, then shrugged, a little uncomfortably. "I'll stay, man. If that's ok."  
"Do what you like." grunted Logan, marching towards the cells. He hated that he knew his way around a coliseum all too well, but it was, at least, useful at times like this.

*

Erik had given up on the pacing a couple of minutes ago and had opted instead to lie down with his back leaning against one of the walls, staring into the other wall, and try to ignore all thoughts of his fate.  
It wasn't working.  
He heard footsteps and inwardly rolled his eyes, although outwardly he remained impassive. The circus owner seemed to have developed some form of entertainment in kicking the bars of Erik's cell and trying to get a rise out of him - not that it worked, but sometimes it came close - and had been periodically doing just that for the last two hours or so.  
Maybe this time I'll snap at him, thought Erik dully. Then perhaps he'll whack me one and go away.  
"Wake up," growled Tullius's voice, without kicking the cage, and Erik suddenly became aware of another person watching him. He glanced up, half-curiously, half-nervously, to see the huge bodyslave of the man who had bought him.  
Fucking finally.  
"On your feet." continued Tullius. "And make it quick. Logan's master wants you home fast."  
Erik snarled furiously in reply, but got up nonetheless. No matter how suicidally reckless you may be, you did not irritate your superiors on the first day if you could help it; that was a universal rule, it appeared, when it came to slaves.  
"Don't bother offering me any collar or chain shit," Logan shot sideways to Tullius, in a dangerous warning tone. "Charles don't like it."  
The circus master snorted. "It's your problem, then, if he chooses to fight."  
Logan casually flexed a gigantic bicep. "Yeah, bub. I can deal with that."  
He fumbled with the keys and Logan sighed impatiently. "Could'ya get on with it? I've got someone waiting outside."  
With a spectacularly loud clang that Erik would have sworn on his life did NOT make him cringe, the door to the cell was opened and Tullius grabbed him by the arm and threw him towards Logan. Erik kept his head down, jaw proudly square, and tried to attribute the horrible feeling of shrinking in his stomach to hunger, not fear.

Logan put a hand down heavily on the man's shoulder to keep him from stumbling - Mars, had they even been feeding this guy? - and steered him further into the light before running a careful eye over him.  
"You're Erik, right?" he asked, taking in a wiry but powerful frame and short strawberry-blonde hair, in addition to a rough shirt and braccae. Honestly, he looked about ready to collapse, but, well, if he was steadily upright now then Logan wasn't going to question it. He had a few faded bruises from the fight the day before, but nothing so serious as Tullius would doubtless have had inflicted on him if Charles hadn't bought him first, which was good. It meant that the circus master had kept his word, at least.  
"Yes," replied the young man cautiously. "And you're...?"  
"Logan." he replied gruffly. At the perplexed expression that flitted over Erik's face, he rolled his eyes and elaborated, albeit in his usual taciturn and abrupt manner.  
"I'm from the north. A loganberry is a type of plant, only it's thought to be lucky, and I was born under a sprig of it. Name like that's meant to keep you safe."  
"And did it?" probed Erik, surreptitiously testing Logan's limits. He had a suspicion that the larger man didn't think of himself as any more important than Erik, or any of the other slaves his master might own, but, really, who knew?  
Logan pretty much cemented his suspicions with a rough chuckle. "I'm down here, aren't I? Does it look like I'm lucky?"  
Without giving Erik the chance to reply, he waved a hand and yelled, "Sean!".  
A slightly anxious-looking teenage boy appeared, with a mop of curly red hair and a liberal smattering of freckles. They seemed even to be on his arms.  
He was wearing only a thin top, though, and through it Erik could clearly see the blue woad tattoos of warrior patterns circling his chest. Something like fury rose from his stomach. What idiot would give a boy like this warrior tattoos? Did they want him to get himself killed?  
And what about this new master of his? Was he the kind of man to take advantage of some kid thrown into war or battle long before any sane person would deem it fair for him to have been, or the kind to try and accumulate warriors? Was it that he was attempting to build his own army?  
All these thoughts flashed through Erik's head in the space of about a second, but that was enough time for him to ball his fists and for the deep anger he felt to appear, oh so briefly, on his face.  
This was Sean's first impression of Erik, and he gulped audibly. "I-Intense, dude." he murmured, by way of greeting, and something in Erik relaxed as he leant on Logan as if the bigger man was a stone pillar. At least the boy trusted someone, and at least Logan was someone to be trusted, if only vaguely.  
Logan frowned a little at Sean's gesture and pushed him off. "Come on. We don't know what Charles has done about Alex yet."  
Erik, falling into step with Sean rather than Logan - much to Logan's amusement and Sean's dismay - perked up a little at this, interested. "What about Alex?"  
"Alexander," replied Sean casually, voice soft. "He's another one that bunks with us. He ran off this morning, kind of possibly caused, like, this huge mess with a senator, and Charles has been trying to sort it." The young man started to bite his lip in habitual nervousness. "I hope he's ok. Alex is always doing dumb stuff like that, and half the time he gets hurt pretty bad."  
Erik involuntarily paled a little at that, misinterpreting it in the most astounding way possible. It sounded, to him, like Alex had tried to run away, and been caught by a senator, and was now being punished- and possibly 'hurt pretty bad'.  
"Usually Logan does that kind of thing," continued Sean blithely, ignorant of the way Erik had gone a little weak at the knees with anticipatory terror, in addition to the everpresent hunger and thirst and exhaustion. "'Cept today he was coming here and Charles sent me with him."  
Sean hurried ahead so as to try and keep up with Logan's long strides but, adversely, Erik only slowed down, trying to remember how to breathe.  
A horrible, horrible image flashed through his brain very quickly, of little Pietro kneeling somewhere, frightened, with a man, just as strong and just as terrifying as Logan could undoubtedly be, punishing him for some tiny sin, hurting him-  
All of a sudden it was too much, and Erik first stopped moving, then stopped being able to stand and crumpled to his knees. It was nothing too alarming to anyone, really, but a few heads turned; among them, that of a little boy standing by a stall in the market, with shining grey hair that caught that light and Erik's eye, drawing his attention as the boy's gaze landed on him, blank at first but then suddenly panicked with recognition and, no, no, it wasn't, it couldn't be, it was impossible, please, Gods, let it not be-  
It was his son, with the line of an old black eye shadowing his face, thin from too little food and pale from living here, where the sun hid itself constantly behind the grey of the sky, standing with some roman's hand clasping a bruising grip around his wrist and tugging him forwards, and his hand, belatedly extended towards Erik as he was pulled some other place by his master, was just too similar to what he had looked like on That Day, that awful day, and Erik's system couldn't take it. Before the first syllable of Pietro's name could pass his lips, darkness closed in from the edges of his vision and he passed out.

*

He woke with a series of gasped words. "My son, that's my son-"  
But no one was around to hear them: he was in a bedroom in a roman villa, heavy curtains pulled across the windows to make it dark. Besides, he had spoken in Gaulish, so no one here would have understood even if they had heard it. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Erik stumbled out of bed and looked around him as his eyes adjusted. His side of the room was bare and neat - not the bed, obviously, the sheets were tangled around his waist - but the other one was littered with personal belongings, bracelets and sketches and a half-empty goblet of wine.  
As Erik frowned slowly at the contents - surely all that couldn't belong that a slave? Not unless he had been living there for a long, long time - Sean appeared at the door with the kind of well-adjusted steps that suggested he was the one who lived in here and, at the sight of Erik, started and back-pedalled rapidly.  
"Wait," called Erik, surprised at the hoarseness of his own throat. " W-Where am I? What's-"  
"You're at the Xavier villa." Sean replied, his calm tone belying the worry in his eyes. "Hank fixed you up, he's a doctor, but he said it'd be best for you to just sleep."  
Eyes narrowed in suspicion, but recognising the medical advice that (in Erik's mind) was barked in his mother's strong accent, Erik lay back down. Sean paused a little, uncertainly, but headed forward and pulled his shirt off and laid it on his bed, reaching for another one. The older man sat up again, eyeing the tattoos.  
"Who gave you them?"  
The kid stiffened up immediately, then shrugged. "My brother."  
"Your brother?" repeated Erik, deliberately poking a raw wound to test Sean's reaction. "Where is he?"  
He swallowed compulsively. "Dead."  
Erik felt the slightest pang of guilt at that, but kept asking.  
"In a battle?"  
Sean whirled around to face him, indignant anger leaking from every pore. "In THE battle. I am of the Iceni."  
Erik shrugged back. "I haven't been on this island very long. 'Iceni' doesn't mean anything to me."  
Sean sat down opposite him, staring very hard into Erik's cold face. "We rose against Rome," he said eventually, the words weighted so that Erik couldn't help but understand what they meant to him. "And Rome punished us. First out queen, and then everyone who followed her."  
"And here you are," replied Erik, tone equally steely. "Serving a Roman."  
Sean's eyebrows shot up. "Not by choice."  
'You of all people should understand that', hung unsaid in the air. Erik was as clearly a prisoner of war as Sean: their warrior bands showed that.  
Erik shifted and looked away. "I'm sorry."  
Sean stood up, finally pulling on a shirt. "S'okay," he mumbled. "Besides, Charles isn't that bad."  
Erik ignored him and lay back down, closing his eyes.

*

Hank was in the kitchen, preparing some medical poultice for Scott's eyes - the kid was still blind, and he clung to Alex like a rock in a storm, but he was doing alright - but Charles, Logan, Raven and the brothers were in the dining room, talking softly, and 'eating' the 'food' that Raven had 'cooked'.  
There was a general consensus that she should never be let in the vicinity of goods for consumption, but no one had the nerve to tell her so.  
Sean wandered in with the air of a sleepwalker, which was, in fairness, the general feeling that he usually gave off.  
"Gladiator dude's awake." he announced quietly, and Charles nodded, but Logan actually sat up and took notice, scowling suspiciously.  
"He bother you too much?"  
Sean rubbed his nose and shook his head, and Raven and Logan's eyes narrowed immediately. He was lying.  
Sean, wisely avoiding the 'food' without bothering to ask who made it, plonked himself down and began toasting pieces of bread over a candle.  
"He's a little... y'know, insane."  
Maybe the others would have brushed that off and forgotten it if Erik had not - caught in the throes of some nightmare - run stumbling into the kitchen and messed everything up in a rather spectacular manner.  
To be precise, Erik caught sight first of a very confused Hank, pushed him out of the way, looked around for Sean, saw Logan coming towards him instead, tried to move away, tripped over, and...  
... Well, and then he saw Scott. The boy was blind, that was clear enough, and the hand of a much larger and more heavily built boy was wrapped firmly around his wrist and he was surrounded by others (and they were all strong young men that the poor boy would have no chance of fighting), and he was older than Pietro but still only a little child, trapped in this situation, absolutely trapped, like Erik and his family and...  
He blacked out.  
Again.

The room swam and focused before Erik's eyes, and the white hot burst of pain which had woken him up faded to a dull throbbing in the base of his skull.  
"Ow." he groaned under his breath, trying to sit up. A soft hand, all long fingers and anxiously bitten nails, pushed him down.  
"Careful, my friend. You hit your head on the way down." The words were as hazy as the rest of Erik's world, but there was enough authority behind them for him obediently sink back down into... something soft. Pillows, by the feel of it. Where was he, anyway?  
"You're Erik." said the voice, and part of the blur above him became soft, wavy brown hair and forget-me-not blue eyes.  
It wasn't a question, but he nodded anyway.  
"I'm Charles." continued the man. "Charles Xavier."  
Bam. Everything shot into clear focus, both literally and metaphorically.  
Erik turned his head a little to stare wide-eyed at him. At his master.  
"Any explanation of what that was supposed to be?"  
Erik braced himself and shook his head, something like defiance shining in his eyes.  
Charles sighed. "I'll phrase it a different way," he began again, tone pleading. "Why on earth did you come bursting into the kitchen and attack us all?"  
Erik scowled deeply and levered himself upright, ignoring Charles's flustered protestations. "I hardly to need to give explanation," he hissed viciously. "To Roman pieces of filth who keep child soldiers and blind slaves."  
Oh.  
Charles suddenly understood Erik's attitude, and his protectiveness, and about fifty percent of his aggression.  
"Oh, no! No, no, no. You're quite mistaken. Sean and Scott want to be here, or they'd leave. I mean, look at me, I can hardly stop them."  
"Don't give me that," snarled Erik in reply. "That's what you've got that wild man for, Logan."  
"Oh, please," cried Charles. "Do you think I'm holding something over his head here? When I found him..."  
And Charles explained, with much vivid gesturing and many frequent apologies, how exactly most of the slaves he owned had come into his possession. Hank was the easiest to talk about, since Hank was nothing more than an apothecary's apprentice that Charles had happened to befriend. Erik himself was the hardest.  
At the end of it, Erik stated incredulously at him, while Charles just stared nervously back.  
"You're insane." Erik pronounced eventually, one eyebrow raised. "You're either absolutely insane or a total idiot."  
"I'm probably not an idiot...?" offered Charles, nodding.  
Erik hesitated, then lay back down and laughed, turning his head into the pillow, and finally glanced back up at the crazy man.  
"Thank you," he said slowly. "Charles. For... for saving me, I guess. I was ready to die in that arena, you know. I was well prepared for it. I had nothing left."  
Charles looked thoughtfully at Erik, straight in the eyes. "No. I'm sorry, my friend, I don't believe that. Maybe you were prepared to die, but you wouldn't kill. That man, Janos, he would have killed you, but you wouldn't kill him." Charles was beginning to get ecstatic, beaming merrily at Erik. "It's all rather wonderful. Even on death's very door, you were the better man!"  
Erik's eyes narrowed. "Don't excite yourself, I've killed people."  
Charles waved it off with one casually optimistic hand. "Yes, yes, but not like that."  
"Not for men's entertainment." agreed Erik in a growl. "There were children in that crowd."  
Charles, at the mention of children, felt some of Erik's previous behaviour come into the light. If he was preoccupied with their protection, the way he acted over Sean and Scott especially was beginning to make a lot of sense.  
"The children were a particularly affecting factor?" asked Charles curiously, pulling himself upright and limping over to a large jug of the fiery native barely-spirit that probably belonged to Logan, and pouring Erik a large glass. As he did, Erik's mind raced, wondering exactly how much of the truth it would be wise to tell.  
It was only when Charles turned back to him, clearly interested but still soft and welcoming, that he spoke.  
"My wife, and two of them- twins."  
"How old are they?" asked Charles softly, knowing about and not wanting to interrupt what was clearly a private monologue.  
"They were eight summers when the soldiers attacked us." replied Erik numbly. "I don't know how much time exactly it's been since then."  
He closed his eyes for a moment, under the unbearable weight of the memories.  
"My wife, my daughter... I don't know where they are. I don't know if they're alive, if they even survived the battle. My son, though, I know that he's here. In Britain."  
Charles silently handed him the glass, and Erik pushed himself a little up the couch that he had been laid on so that he could drink it. "A-A slave." whispered Erik, then poured as much of the bitter liquid down his throat as he could. "Gods above! He's... he's just a kid!"  
Charles put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Perhaps we could help?"  
Erik shot him a sideways glance, and the cruelly bitter response he had prepared died on his tongue.  
"Perhaps." he agreed, softly, like he barely dared to hope.


	2. Chapter 2

Raven sat on the low wall of the gardens and looked out on the river, head cocked thoughtfully, like that of the bird she was named after. Everything was green and quiet and peaceful, and that was nice. Living with all the boys were fun, sure, but this was nice.  
"Hey, bitch!" cried a voice from behind her. It was a girl's voice, and Raven smiled and glanced over her shoulder to where a pretty young woman with tanned skin and dark eyes was standing, arms crossed and smirking.  
"Hello, Angel."  
"Come on, loser, we're going shopping."  
She beamed and vaulted off and over the wall, running lightly over to her friend. "Any explanation?" she whispered, as she threw her arms gratefully around Angel.  
"Nope." whispered the older girl back. She let go of Raven and appraised her jokingly at arm's length. "I just think you could use it. Come on!"  
She giggled and joined hands with Angel, allowing herself to be led back through the villa and past Charles.  
"Going shopping!" she called, over her shoulder. "See you!"  
"Mm." agreed Charles, frowning thoughtfully at the game of merels he was playing with Hank. Raven rolled her eyes and hurried out.  
She liked Angel, liked Angel's friends. They were as different from Charles's bunch as chalk and cheese, dangerous and dirty and dark, but they protected her too. Not like Charles, obviously, and while she would never disregard the level of safety and freedom that he had always provided her, it wasn't true freedom. This was.  
Azazel, when she arrived at Angel's villa, was already slugging from a long, thin bottle, and very clearly already drunk - not in the clumsy, happy way that Sean and Alex got drunk, in a far more angry and flirtatious manner - and Raven hurried to embrace him. She was going for chaste, being brought up by the 'proper Romans' that the Markos were (they had hoped for her to be a vestal virgin, but she'd snorted in their faces) but Azazel laughed brightly and pulled her into his lap.  
"Hi." she gasped, the second he stopped kissing her, and glanced over to where Angel was clutching her stomach laughing at her.

*Azazel and Raven had met about two months earlier, at Emma Frost's villa. The only reason Charles had given her permission to go in the first place was Frost's public face: that of a widow, dressed respectfully in long white tunics, mourning Senator Shaw. She was their neighbour, four houses or so down the neat, straight Roman streets - how Raven detested their cruel order! - and Logan, while nodding politely at the news of Shaw's death, had hissed the truth to Raven later, in their native language. Emma, tired of being treated cruelly by her husband, had simply killed him. He had been poisoned, by a powder hidden in the ice of his wine.  
Madam 'Frost', indeed.  
But it was her party that Raven had been attending, and it was not filled with silly, primped housewives as she had been expecting. There were wildmen there, men of the north, and gladiators, and the most crooked and corrupt of 'proper Roman society' that their town had to offer.  
Raven loved it.  
Azazel himself was from the strange clans, even further west than Gaul, and had tattoos in red all over his body. Even his face. His hair was jet black and sleeked down across his scalp with oil, and he had a neatly styled goatee, which he stroked almost compulsively with clawed nails. He had been a slave too, explained Emma - clad now in a white shift, little more than underwear, and looking stunningly beautiful - and he had most certainly not been freed. Around his neck and wrists there were the scars of the cruel iron manacles that Raven remembered all to clearly from her own time as a captive, and there were more, the marks of swords and knives and spears and whips and nets.  
"He was a gladiator?" she had whispered to Emma, watching Azazel be divested of his shirt by Angel's curious fingers, and Emma had laughed into her goblet.  
"Better than that, honey. He was a hired knife."  
She used the word 'better'. Anyone else would have called it 'worse'.  
And Raven, as she strode past him, found herself caught and swung to face him.  
"Do you speak Latin?" he asked, smiling. His hands, although they still held her hips, did not wander, and they did not fix her tightly in place, resting lightly over her thin clothes.  
"I speak Latin." she replied, gazing daringly at him, barely concealed energy and a warning beneath her voice, as usual. "Of course I speak Latin. I have lived here a long time."  
"Ah, coucushka," crooned Azazel soothing. "I only asked because of your eyes. You are wild, yes?"  
She leaned ingratiatingly closer to him, and - when his corded, muscled arms wrapped around her - suddenly dug her dagger into his side. "Yes," she hissed. "British. Wild as this town once was, as the north is, and as this land will be again."  
"British and proud." he teased, flicking a nail against her torc. He paid no heed to the steel point pressed to the underside of his ribs, and stared definitely into her amber eyes with his own icy blue.  
"What did you call me?" she asked curiously, evening off the pressure a little.  
"Coucushka." he explained. "'Cuckoo- it means cuckoo."  
It was an oddly apt description, she realised. Abandoned by its parents, the cuckoo lives among a different species, but never forgets its true nature.  
But it was still wrong.  
"I am not a cuckoo." she replied, face a perfect deadpan.  
"No?" he chuckled, running a finger down the side of her cheekbone and into her tangled, wavy blonde hair. "Are you a bird at all? Are you a girl, then, instead?"  
"I am Raven."  
"Raven." he replied, tasting the word. "You know, Raven, your tunic does not cover much."  
At that, she grinned. "No. Neither does the shirt that you are not wearing."  
He shrugged, and kissed her, and...  
...well things went downhill from there.*

"What's this about shopping that I have heard?" he asked, his heavy accent prompting just the smallest hint of a smile to ghost over Raven's lips.  
"Us. We're going to do it. You got anything better to do, Az?" asked Angel, impatiently adjusting her clothes and looking in the mirror.  
"No," he admitted slowly. "But I am meant to be watching out for that gladiator. The newly freed one- Janos or something. I forget."  
"Then forget him entirely." pleaded Raven. "Come on. My brother has found another two lost causes to add to his household, and my life grows increasingly dull."  
"He controls you too much, wild girl." agreed Azazel, and Raven kissed him again and pulled him to his feet.  
"The markets are open."  
"Oh good." he murmured absently."I will have something to wander around pointlessly with you two."  
Angel, watching them, pulled a face. "Hercule. I swear, sometimes I think you like her, Azazel, not just her fucks."  
"I don't like anybody." he protested darkly, but his taloned, rough hand squeezed Raven's strong, long-fingered one before he let go.  
The market was busy, and filled with such general trash that Raven was beginning to worry for the fate of their town. She watched Angel - Roman to her arrogant fingertips, obnoxious and loud-mouthed and wonderfully blunt - argue merrily with the owner of a makeup stall, and Azazel run his fingers over the sharpened edge of a curved sword in cruel delight, and moved aimlessly so she was standing against the wall of someone's house. Centurion Stryker, she recognised absently. On leave from the conquering fourth cohort. Of Gauls, she thought, the Fourth Cohort of Gauls. That meant that Stryker had fought, and killed, Erik's people.  
Raven felt her top lip curl in disgust.  
She did not like soldiers.  
And with good reason, it seemed, because with her ear pressed accidentally against his wall, she could hear the events within.  
A child's voice cried out, begged something in a language she didn't recognise, and cried out again, falling silent in the face of their master or their father's wrath. Stryker had a son, she thought. Perhaps it was him- no. Jason had been sent away to join the army.  
"Listen to me, you little thief," snarled the centurion. "You are going to tell me where you got this, or I am going to beat you within an inch of your life."  
"I didn't get it from anywhere!" pleaded the child. "Please, don't- ah!"  
His words cut off again into sobs, as Stryker presumably grabbed his hair to haul him upright.  
"No? Then where did it come from, you lying piece of-"  
"Master!" called another voice sharply, one Raven didn't recognise, in a strange accent that spoke of the lands across the channel. Its owner hurried closer, and she (transfixed) could hear a slight thump as his knees hit the ground. "It belongs to Rogue, sir, de boy has done nothin'."  
There was something else in his accent too, but Raven didn't know where it came from.  
Their master hesitated a moment, then let go of the boy, who went quickly to his knees as well. "Take what I've already given as punishment for your slacking at the market then." he snarled, breathing heavily as he walked away - like a dog, thought Raven disgustedly - and the two slaves murmured their immediate obedience. Naturally, the older one waited until he was gone to hurry over to the younger and help him to his feet, and Raven, by turning her head, found she could see through a knot in the wood.  
The man had longish cinnamon hair and a tanned complexion, with the kind of tall frame that suggested wiry strength and fearful agility.  
The boy was just thin, underfed for a little too long, with unusual grey hair. It hung lankly down to his shoulders, and there were tears in his eyes - one of which was yellow in an old bruise -from Stryker's painful grip. He looked about ten, but he, too, was tallish.  
"Hey," hummed the man softly, gently putting a finger under the boy's chin to turn his face up and towards the light. "You alright, P'etro? He rough you up too bad?"  
The boy shook his head numbly.  
"Aw, you're brave." smiled the older slave. "But why'd you even have dat? It's dangerous to have a knife around Stryker, y'know. He's crazy. I can't always cover fo' you- you just lucky he's too stupid to wonder why y'had dat in the first place."  
"I was going to stab him in the leg, Remy," whispered the boy. "And run away."  
Remy breathed in sharply through his nose, and glanced behind him, as though frightened that Stryker might somehow have heard. "Non, non. Dey find a runaway - an' if you run away, dey will - and dey'll kill him. Bad idea."  
"Not like I had a chance." muttered the boy resentfully. "He held fast to my wrist."  
"Dat's good. Stopped you from doing anything stupid." The man ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "You finished your chores yet, kid?"  
He shook his head.  
"Alright, Pietro. I'll do 'em, go find Rogue. She'll find you something to eat; anything. You're gonna starve."  
He reached down and pulled the boy to his feet, brushing the dirt off his side, and jumped when the kid threw his skinny arms around his waist.  
"I miss my papa." whimpered Pietro.  
"I miss my pa too-" whispered the older man back, and maybe he wasn't so old after all, realised Raven. He released the boy and sent an appraising eye up and down him. "You think he'd wantcha dead?" demanded Remy. "Mon dieu, if Jean-Luc saw me now, he'd 'ave a fit!"  
The situation was far too familiar to Raven and, as they hurried away, she gasped and snapped out of it, sinking down to rest against the wall. For a moment, she buried her head in her hands and tried to calm her breathing as terrible, horrible memories overwhelmed her, and eventually Angel and Azazel's voice broke through her blinding panic and she pulled herself upright to go to them. Raven ran on soft feet, in her usual manner, but as she reached them, the smell of one of the food stalls got to her and she doubled over in combined nausea from that and from what she had just heard.  
Angel's arms were suddenly around her, her concerned face visible through a curtain of shimmering black hair as Raven tried not to vomit.  
"Oh, gods, Raven! Are you okay?"  
Raven swallowed and tried to stand up, nodding.  
"What happened? Where'd you get to?"  
"It's nothing," she managed to reply, with a weak, shaky smile. "Just the smell of those onions, or whatever they were."  
Angel's delicate brow crinkled, and suddenly her eyes widened.  
"Raven," she hissed, waving Azazel away. "You're not... you're not pregnant, are you?"  
Raven's reaction was first of shock, the doubt, then anxiety and then, awfully, she realised that she could be, from the night (well, nights) she had spent with Azazel, and she hadn't bled since then and, oh no, hadn't noticed because she lived with so many boys, and no, no, no...  
"Roma Dea!" yelled Angel.  
"What is it?" asked Azazel's voice, concerned, from somewhere out of Raven's view.  
"You, you bastard!" gasped Angel, punching him helplessly in the arm. "She's pregnant!"  
Raven allowed Angel to pull her upright, and stared at Azazel with wide eyes. He stared back, semi-panicked.  
A sudden thought occurred to Raven, and hysteria began to rise up from her chest, bubbling in crazy giggles from her mouth.  
"Charles is going to kill me," she whispered. "And Logan is going to kill you."  
Faces flickering between anxious and worried and grave and excited, they led her home.

"You're WHAT?" Sean had screeched, worryingly high.  
Hank had only blinked and offered a long 'Ummmmm' before fleeing to his own room in shock.  
Alex had checked first that she was okay, then laughed.  
Logan had slowly raised one eyebrow, eyes wide, looked her up and down and then (predictably) reached for the sword that he kept at his belt. "Do I need to stab someone?" he had asked in a low rumble.  
Scott and Erik were told by the others, since she didn't know them nor really care for their opinions yet, and apparently both went kind of silent and worried and asked what Charles had done when he found out.  
Charles had collapsed into the nearest chair.  
"B-But," he had stammered, eyes glazed over with the beginnings of numb panic. "You're my sister-"  
She had rolled her eyes, whilst inwardly being quite concerned for him and almost desperate for a vaguely positive reaction. "Charles, it's not yours."  
"I'm not ready to be a father-" he continued, glancing over to Logan and Hank for assistance. They stood helplessly by.  
Raven's eyes narrowed and she bent down to grab Charles by the shoulders. "Listen to me, you ridiculous little man, you are not anyone's father, least of all this child's. Understand?"  
His mouth dropped open and he didn't reply, and her demeanour softened a little.  
"Charles, I thought you knew about biology. Someone did tell you about where babies come from, didn't they?"  
That snapped him out of it, and his nose crumpled up a little in distaste.  
"Well, yes, but- Oh, gods, Raven! You- you and someone- ugh!"  
She straightened back up and crossed her arms over her chest.  
"I really thought you wouldn't fixate on such a childish area of this, brother."  
"Don't talk to me about 'childish'," he responded, a little outraged. "You've gone and got yourself bloody pregnant!"  
The blood drained from his face as the main problem with this occurred to him, and he glanced around at the others.  
"W-Wait, who's the-"  
"You don't know him." she said quickly, dropping her eyes. "He's called Azazel."  
Logan inhaled sharply through his teeth, and she turned on him, gaze smouldering.  
"Tell him anything," she snapped, carefully choosing obscure Celtic words that anyone except Logan and maybe Sean wouldn't have a hope of understanding. "Anything at all, and I'll dismember you."  
Logan held his hands up in surrender, and walked past them, pausing only to gently kiss her cheek.  
"They're your choices, little Raven warrior. You do as you like."  
"Try and stop me." she replied, sharp as a knife edge, but smiled a little. Starting fights might be an especial talent of Logan's, but he was pretty well-versed in peacemaking as well.  
Charles meanwhile, grabbed his crutches and pulled himself upright in what was his approximation of an excited leap, beaming and full of worries.  
"Oh gods, Raven, have you drunk anything since - anything alcoholic, I mean - actually, how far along are you? Are you sure that you're-"  
"I don't think so, couple of months, yes." she replied, smiling back at him.  
"And does this 'Azazel' person know?" he asked, gleefully rubbing his hands together. "Because otherwise, I shall have to go and-"  
"Yes!" Raven interrupted, dashing any ideas of Charles finding the devilish mercenary that had managed to accidentally knock her up and TALKING to him. Given a choice between not talking for a week and not eating for a week, Charles, she thought, would have to think very carefully before making a decision.  
Besides, Azazel would probably get confused and stab him.  
"Yes, he knows."  
"Damn. Well, general... uh, preparations should be, um, made. I'll get Hank to go and consult some midwifes, shall I, hmm?"  
Ignoring Hank's splutters of protest, he hooked an arm around her own and began a rather determined march towards the study, presumably to work out more things to interrogate her over.  
Really, she didn't mind.

Erik appeared at the doorway to the lounge, and (other than a sideways glare from Alex) received no real reaction from the occupants, so decided to stay at the doorway. Inside sat Logan, Alex and Scott, and Logan (with a tea towel over his face) was sprawled on one of the couches, snoring obnoxiously, leaving Scott to curl into Alex's side on one of the chairs. Apparently his brother and Hank had been giving him the foul smelling poultice that could, very possibly, restore his eyes a little, but as of yet he was still blind.  
"I don't understand," the younger boy was murmuring, high and curious, somewhere into Alex's ribcage. "Isn't he angry?"  
Alex wrapped a strong arm around the frail little body, and reached up to gently muss Scott's hair.  
"Nah. It's only Charles; he's harmless."  
"But he owns her," Scott insisted, a hint of fear lighting at the edge of his voice. "And she-"  
"He's her brother." cut Alex firmly. "Charles's isn't anybody's owner. He's a friend."  
Erik frowned and turned to go back the way he had come. He never would have admitted it, but those thoughts had been precisely the ones plaguing him. And anyway, even if she had been born as his sister, she was a young Roman maiden going off and having a child with some man she wasn't married to, and whom the others barely knew. Surely nobody - who wasn't completely off his nut - could possibly approve of that?  
He realised he was biting the skin off the side of his thumb anxiously, and stopped with a start.  
"Charles," Raven's voice was barking. "Charles, you idiot, get over here!"  
"Stop insulting me!" he yelped, surprisingly high. Erik looked down and leaned against the wall to listen, aware that perhaps he shouldn't be overhearing this. But what if something bad happened? Could Charles really be as idyllic as he-  
No. Charles is a good man, he assured himself. He's a wonderful man. He must be.  
He's a Roman, whispered a dark little voice at the edge of Erik's mind. One of those who destroyed everything you held dear. Try as you might, you will always hate him.  
"I will not! Charles, I have been preg-"  
"Arrgh! Don't-"  
"Don't what? Say 'pregnant'? It's what I am, you silly prick. Come here!"  
"What on earth do you want?" called Charles, jogging from one room to the other, across Erik's line of vision for a moment.  
"You," snapped Raven shortly, and Erik could practically HEAR the accusatory stab of her pointing finger. "I have been pregant for a matter of weeks, at the most, and you have already gone and consulted a doctor, you crazy, annoying-"  
"I-It- well, Raven, let's not overreact, it seemed, um, prudent...?"  
"You are not to interfere, do you understand me?"  
"I can't help it, dear, I feel responsible!"  
She snorted in derision. "Hardly, Charles."  
"But-"  
"Think about it carefully, dimwit, then absolve yourself of all possible responsibility, since you have had absolutely nothing to do with the issue of procreation and the subsequent parasitic unfortunate inside of me. Do you get that?"  
Erik frowned, trying to work out the exact meaning of that sentence, and felt Charles doing the same.  
"Well, alright, but I make no promises."  
"Truce?"  
"If you say so."  
There was a silence, and he suspected that they were hugging. Erik closed his eyes, and his mouth pressed unconsciously into a rigid line.  
Affection, bleh. This house was full of nothing but it. It felt alien and wrong, like a tiny, minuscule piece of home ripped away from where it should be and superimposed carelessly on a strange world of hard, harsh, stone lines and rigidly neat formality. All the wildness here was covered up or whitewashed over, and yet here still was love and a glimpse of freedom, like weeds and flowers sprouting between cobblestones.  
It hurt his head to think like that, and all the foreignness pressed in, and he took a deep breath and hurried outside, as a drowning man would reach the surface of the water. Outside, the world did not seem as claustrophobically small as inside, nor as strange. He sat down limply on the ground with a sigh, and looked around him. Sean was leaning on the fence that separated the Xavier villa from the dusty back road, not half so tidily swept as the front, and very clearly waiting for something.  
"The legionaries'll be coming past in a moment." called Sean, with a cursory glance over his shoulder. "They're marching up to the wall."  
"Hadrian's Wall?"  
The teenager nodded, and kept watching as Erik stood up and went over to the fence to watch too.  
Sure enough, a few seconds passed and then the sound of marching feet and the occasional bellowed order filled the air, and shining bronze armour and red crests and cloaks came into view.  
Sean's eyes narrowed, and Erik glanced at him, darkly amused.  
"You like them about as much as I do." he said, quietly, like a thought accidentally said out loud.  
"Pretty sure I like them even less." mumbled Sean, just as softly.  
"Then why are you watching them?"  
"Just making sure they're really going." he replied. "There's no one left up at the wall. All the tribes scarpered pretty quick once they started work on it, so there's nothing for them to hurt there."  
"Just keep the Caledonians out and no one gets conquered? Is that how it works?"  
Sean shrugged, carefully forcing himself to be casual and relaxed, as it seemed he always did.  
"Maybe. It's not like these guys," He gestured to the soldiers, who were now passing by so close that it would, if either of them were daring enough, have been possible to throw a stone at one of them hard enough to break a bone. "Haven't done far too much conquering already. They were deployed in Gaul."  
Erik stiffened and turned back to the marching men with renewed and indescribable hatred.  
"That's Centurion Stryker." continued Sean. "Meanest bastard you'll ever meet. Raven says he used to threaten the town children with his sword out, just for fun. He's a cruel man, and doubly so to his soldiers and his slaves."  
"You'd know?" asked Erik, genuinely curious as most of legionaries passed.  
Sean shrugged. "Word gets around. Besides, Logan knows his cook, Rogue."  
Erik nodded and they fell into silence as the last of the legionaries disappeared over the brow of a small hill, taking their clinking and their shouting and their dusty marching with them.  
Hopefully they wouldn't come back for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter, I know! Still, it's an update.


End file.
